


Rusty Cage

by neversaydie



Series: Black Dog Blues [2]
Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Community: twd_kinkmeme, Depression, Gen, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-04-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 05:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neversaydie/pseuds/neversaydie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembered seeing the marks on Ma's skin, when he'd take her up a tray of food during one of her turns. Now Daryl had started having 'turns' of his own, just like Ma. Maybe this would help him too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rusty Cage

**Author's Note:**

> No actual self-harm depicted. Sequel/prequel to Head Creeps.

10am was too early to start drinking.

Daryl smothered a yawn and rubbed his eyes, glaring at the battered alarm clock next to his bed. He'd been lying there since six, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the motivation to get up and make a cup of coffee. For once he even had the prospect of breakfast waiting for him. Merle had been around a lot more lately, had even been grocery shopping for him after he'd found his little brother slumped on the couch with a beer last week, having not slept or eaten or left the house for fuck knows how long. He'd been caring, no matter how incongruous it felt to put Merle Dixon and caring in the same sentence. He'd got Daryl into the shower and clean clothes and forced a meal down him, all with a minimum of bullying or snide remarks. He'd even given him a gruff, awkward hug.

It had seemed like he'd understood, and that freaked Daryl out more than losing control of his own fucking mind did.

He needed to get up. If he wasn't up soon, he'd have Merle hammering on his front door until he forced himself out of bed to let him in. It wasn't even being forced out of bed he minded (lord knows he wished he could do it to himself), it was the little flicker of sadness in his brothers eyes every time he saw Daryl wasn't any better than the day before. Merle never said 'I'm worried.' He never said 'I need you to be okay' or 'Please don't leave me like everyone else,' but Daryl could read the words clear as day behind his carefully cheerful expression. He was destroying his brother just as sure as he was destroying himself, but he couldn't get a grip on the slippery slope to haul himself back onto level ground.

10:30 was too early to start drinking.

He was going to the bar later with Merle (even if it was just a ploy to get him out of the house, he still relished being allowed to tag along with his big brother when he got the chance), so it wasn't like he was hard up for booze. That wasn't what he wanted, really, he wasn't even that much of a drinker after everything he'd been through with Pa. What Daryl was really craving was something to take the edge off, to make this whole numb process of getting up to face the world doable. It was too hard now, when he could barely see or feel anything through the thick grey glass that stood between him and the rest of the world.

He needed to get up. He needed something to make him get up. He needed something to breathe a little life into his veins and make him feel like more than a walking corpse again.

11am was too early to start drinking, but he had another idea.

The bedside drawer stuck like it always had, needing a thump on the side and a yank to the left before it'd let itself be dragged open. His pocket knife sat there, well-kept and cleaned just like Pa had taught him. A lesson hard-learned was a lesson well-learned, the old man used to grunt while Daryl iced his eye and couldn't go to school and learn any lessons other than the ones Pa taught. He shook his head forcefully to shake the thoughts away. That was a long time ago.

He picked up the knife, flicked it open and felt the weight in his palm. He remembered seeing the marks on Ma's skin, when he'd take her up a tray of food during one of her turns. Parallel lines, straight and neat. Once, she'd caught him looking, snatched him up close like he was still her baby, though he was far too old to be hugged by then. She'd whispered 'it helps,' in his ear. 'It helps,' and 'Don't tell your big brother, or Pa,' and 'Our little secret.' They had a lot of little secrets back then, before the fire. Little secrets like sending Daryl to get her wine and smokes, with money stashed in a coffee can under the bed that Pa didn't know about. Little secrets like straight, neat, parallel lines.

Now Daryl had started having 'turns' of his own, just like Ma. Maybe, just like Ma, this was the thing that would finally be some help. It was worth a shot.

"Didn't you hear me hollerin' at—what the fuck are you doin'?"

The tank of his brother's body loomed in the doorway and spooked Daryl, distracting him for a long enough second for Merle to take in the scene and realise what was going on. The pure, crystallised fear in his eyes swelled and quickly abated when he saw Daryl hadn't yet broken skin, and was replaced by icy, barely-controlled rage. He stalked across the room as Daryl scrambled to his feet, backing up as far against the wall as he could get and managing to knock the alarm clock off the bedside table in his haste.

"What the _fuck_ d'you think you're doin' you dumb sumbitch?! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Merle snatched the pocketknife from Daryl's shaking hand, deftly flipping it closed with a practiced twitch of the wrist. Without warning, he pulled back and slapped his brother across the face with an open hand. Not as much force as a punch, but still enough to send Daryl reeling, hand instinctively clutching his cheek.

"If I ever fuckin' see you doin' this shit again." Merle brandished the closed knife in his face, and Daryl kept his eyes on the floor. "You don't wanna know what I'll do if I catch you like this."

"M'sorr—"

"I make myself fuckin' clear?" Daryl just nodded in the face of his brother's anger, bare back pressing against the cold plaster of the bedroom wall and making him aware of every ridge of scar tissue. "Shut the fuck up and get your ass downstairs."

So that wasn't the first time.

The first time came later, when Merle was back in prison and Daryl hit another low, the kind of low that made the others look like a bad day at Disneyworld. He never did find out what Merle would do if he caught him, because by the time Merle saw the scars something had died behind his eyes and he just grunted, shoving another beer into his brother's hand.

They never talked about it. The dead started rising, and suddenly everything that had mattered before was a vague memory.

Daryl still kept the little pocket knife, stashed away in the bottom of one of the bags on the bike. Just in case. 


End file.
